


Driving Hazards

by fadagaski, Owlship, Tyellas



Series: Inappropriate Vehicular Activity [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Road Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Unsafe driving, Vaginal Fingering, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6041251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/pseuds/Tyellas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trade runs get more exciting in the best possible way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dare

**Author's Note:**

> A spontaneous collab because the only thing better than smut, is more smut. Now featuring [delicious smutty art by Youkaiyume](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/139675325173/thar-she-blows-mad-max-smut-ahead-pun)!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Anonymous prompted](http://v8roadworrier.tumblr.com/post/139473548806/furiosamax-sex-while-driving-max-gets-furiosa): "Furiosa/Max, sex while driving. Max gets Furiosa off with his fingers down her pants and she has to keep hold of the wheel and keep the truck on course the whole time (and also not alert their escort to what they're doing). And Max is all nonchalant and eyes on the horizon like nothing's happening."

She doesn’t startle when one of Max’s hands lands low across her belly partly because he’d been moving slow and obvious enough to make sure he didn’t trip any of her defenses. And partly because, well, Furiosa is pretty sure she know what he’s aiming for.

It wasn’t that trade runs were usually boring (few things were, the wasteland being what it was), but they did sometimes stretch on rather long. And the rattling rhythm of what they’d salvaged the original War Rig into was… enticing, especially added on top of the usual thrill of commanding all its speeding steel through potential dangers.

Furiosa shifts in place a little when his fingers attempt to unbuckle her belt- it was his off hand and clumsy for it, but she certainly had no intention of helping him along. The buckle finally unhooks and Max makes a quietly satisfied noise, mostly eaten up by the roar of the engine.

His fingers slip under the waistband, spend a moment just scratching the wiry hair over her mound, almost petting.

Furiosa turns to shoot him a look when he doesn’t immediately move on because _that_ wasn’t going to get either of them anywhere, but Max badly restrains a smirk and says, “Eyes on the road.”

There is no true road, of course, and she’s certainly capable of turning away from the view ahead for a while without crashing into any of their convoy outriders, but Furiosa knows a challenge when she sees one.

“You’re supposed to be keeping a look-out,” she reminds him and Max hums in reply, shifts his fingers down to the start of her slit even as he turns his head away to look out the window.

She thinks about spreading her legs a little, giving him more access, but stays as she is instead. She wasn't going to try and stop him from making her come if that was his aim, but there was no need to make it easy on him. His fingers are rough, calloused, and despite the shiver of pleasure driving the rig always gives her Furiosa isn’t particularly wet. Rather than try and touch her clit directly Max works his hand down into the confines of her leathers until he’s cupping her entire vulva, skin warm against hers.

The heel of his hand presses down a little, transfers the vibrations of the rig into her flesh more solidly. Furiosa keeps her attention on the way ahead, adjusts her grip on the wheel slightly, heart starting to beat a little faster in anticipation.

Max curls two of his fingers inwards, just enough to tangle in the folds of her labia, palm warm and steady and pressing down slightly higher than her clit. It’s not bad, enough that Furiosa can feel heat spreading out from his hand, coiling leisurely in her pelvis. She shifts a little, still not widening her stance, waiting to see what he’ll do. He knew her body fairly well by now, how to touch and how not to, but she'd never had the distraction of driving to weigh against his touch before.

His fingers start moving deeper through her folds until he’s found her entrance, already wetter than it had been when he started. Max circles around the edge for a moment before pulling his entire hand up, spreading slickness enough to reach her clit, to make those rough fingers of his bearable. She tries to hold it in but an appreciative noise escapes her as he drags past her clit, quiet and lost to the wind.

“Shh,” Max hushes, and she turns to level another look at him. He’s smirking as he looks out the corner of his eye at her, damn him, as if one little sigh was enough to alert the rest of the convoy.

Furiosa huffs and looks back away, swings the wheel to follow the curving path the leading car’s laying down. It'll take a lot more than some quiet noises to raise any real suspicion and he knows it, but she doesn't deny that the extra challenge on top of the task of keeping the rig steady adds another layer of intensity.

Max starts rubbing the area around her clit, light and teasing at first, the rhythm unpolished with his left hand. Even so, it’s enough for Furiosa to have to force herself to stay rigidly upright as the stimulation and the rumbling of the rig start building in intensity, sending little shocks of pleasure through her.

She lets her legs slide open more loosely, finds that she actually has to pay attention to how much pressure she’s putting down on the accelerator to keep the pace from getting ragged. Max’s movements get firmer, rubbing over her clit’s hood so the skin glides delicately and she bites back a moan that probably _would_ have carried, before he slides his fingers back down through her folds to her opening.

Her cunt’s wet enough by now that it’s no hardship for him to dip a finger inside, the heel of his hand resting firm and warm against her clit. Furiosa rocks her hips forward unthinkingly, engine hitching just slightly out of the norm as the movement has her depressing the pedal too harshly. Not enough to have anyone really take notice, but she flexes her hands against the wheel anyway to get some control back, sure Max felt it as well.

A second finger joins the first inside her, just a few centimeters, just enough to tease until he presses _up_ firmly and she can’t hold in the noise that leaves her.

Furiosa is sure that her crew is hanging out in their gunner’s nests completely ignorant of what she’s doing, but the thought that one of them might hear her, might _know_ , has her squirming in place a little on the seat, unsure if the thrill she feels is excitement or dread. She darts a glance to Max as he keeps pressing and rubbing and sparking off pleasure in her, finds him looking out the windows in a passable imitation of disinterested that would possibly fool someone, somewhere.

He keeps rocking his hand against her cunt, slipping easily now that she’s dripping wet, fucks the tips of his fingers inside her while his palm covers her clit with warm steady pressure. Furiosa refocuses her eyes ahead of her, on the bald head of the bored War Boy manning the front car, has to bite her lip to stop a moan from spilling out when a rough patch of dirt under the wheels hikes the rattling vibrations up a notch.

Max eases up on the pressure, stops moving his hand, and it's an unusual enough change that she quickly scans the horizon to see if maybe there was some sign of danger- but the terrain is still, the only dust to be seen coming from their own convoy. Furiosa waits a moment for him to pick back up, sure now that he's still teasing, but the need to get herself off soon outweighs the desire to pretend she isn't affected and she rocks her hips up into his hand, the slick friction sending a pulse down her spine that nearly has her eyes sliding shut.

He’s probably smirking again, but she resolutely ignores looking at Max’s side of the cab as she fights to keep the tension in her legs from fouling the pedals, her arms from letting the wheel start to drift out of course.

His fingers start moving again, determined this time, letting her relax back from doing the work herself and Furiosa bites her lip again to keep quiet as she feels her climax building, hurtling towards her if he doesn’t get it in his head to tease her again.

The rig hitches again as her foot flexes, maybe enough to be noticeable to the crew riding up top, maybe not. Max keeps working his hand against her, pleasure coiling tight and hot through her muscles, and the leading car is far enough ahead and the ground flat enough that Furiosa risks letting her eyes fall shut for just a second.

The sharp reverberating noise of someone pounding on the roof hatch has her shocked into coming, legs clamping tightly shut around Max’s hand while she tries to hold in a shout. The rig holds steady even though the crest of pleasure when she wants to let her whole body quake, both the rig’s and her own engine purring smoothly.

“Hey, Furi!”

Furiosa snaps her eyes open and takes a moment to be grateful that Toast hadn’t swung around to talk with her at the door, before taking her hand off the wheel to drag Max’s arm away from her cunt where he seemed content to leave it stretching between them in plain sight, the smeg.

She slides the hatch open and Toast pops her head inside. “We’re two klicks out,” she says cheerily, seemingly oblivious to what she just interrupted.

Furiosa nods as if she isn't still revved up, as if it was just a normal run, “Crew ready?”

“Of course,” Toast replies, but doesn’t immediately retreat. Instead Furiosa glances up and sees her taking in the cab, eyes flicking between her and Max as knowingly as her name suggests. “Don’t forget to do up your belt before we get there,” she says, voice dripping with amusement.


	2. Reciprocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Furiosa has Max at her mercy.

Two klicks out, then one, then they are there … for several hours’ worth of grandstanding and one-upping and comparing metaphorical dicks. Furiosa can feel the buzz under her skin like she’s touched electrics and the shock is still stinging through her. Doesn’t help that Max spends the entire miserable time lurking at her right-hand side, hot and solid and so damningly near. She doesn’t catch his eye but then she doesn’t have to. She knows there’s a smirk twinkling amongst all that beard scruff.

But if there’s one thing that can be said about Furiosa is that she can play the long game for vengeance. So she makes all the right noises at the trade table, postures in all the right ways, flexes her prosthetic at exactly the right times to support Toast in her negotiations. In the end, they seal the deal with shots of _something_ that smells, tastes and burns like guzzoline. Toast doesn’t choke; Furiosa is inordinately proud.

The Rig’s unloaded, the crew’s in place, Max is still circling her while she commits last-minute checks. Furiosa has a plan, though, feels it tugging her mouth into a grin she fights to hide.

She catches Max just before he climbs into shotgun, rests her hand on his shoulder to get his attention. Exaggerates the blur of alcohol bubbling in her blood. “Will you drive?” she asks, head tilting down as if tired. Max pauses, gives her a long hard look. Furiosa is a consummate actor - had to be, to survive - but Max knows her better than anyone.

“Sure,” he says. He might know, he might not: Furiosa contents herself with the knowledge that it doesn’t really matter either way.

They both climb up the passenger side, one after the other. Max scoots into the driver’s seat and waits for Furiosa to close the door. He meets her eyes, searching, and there’s always something about his gaze - warm and honest and open - that settles her deep inside. He nods at whatever he sees. Then he hits the kill switches and the Rig rumbles to life. The vibrations shudder through Furiosa and oh, now her body truly remembers, his fingers pressing and circling and rubbing. Furiosa slouches in her seat, one foot up on the dash, and aches for the orgasm she was denied.

The convoy pulls out with little fanfare. It’s a long drive back to Citadel. For a while they sit in comfortable silence, just following the lead car, scanning the horizon more out of habit than any true threat. Furiosa dozes a little, lulled by the Rig, pulls up memories of last night in her room to coax along the humming in her blood.

Max clears his throat.

Rolling her head along the back of the seat, Furiosa shoots him a lazy half-lidded look.

“Could pick up - where we left off,” he mutters. He shifts in his seat, bare twitch of the hips but Furiosa’s eyes flicker down, sees the hidden bulge in his pants and the grin spreads wide across her face.

Max looks mildly alarmed at her expression, watches her with the wary stillness of a lizard under the shadow of a hawk.

“I’ve got a better idea,” she murmurs.

Furiosa shuffles across the seat next to him, reaches across with her right hand to run up his thigh, sliding along the inseam to where the leather is supple and hot between his legs. She strokes one finger firmly across his length. His throat clicks with a swallow. When she glances at his face, his brows are furrowed, eyes very dark. He licks his lips and really, that’s enough of an invitation for Furiosa.

“Watch the road,” she warns, before she kisses him. Her skin thrills at the contact, denied for hours now. He opens his mouth to the press of her tongue, exchanges her moan for a hitched breath. The angle is awkward and Furiosa’s neck hurts already but the way he kisses her - the way it thrums straight through the core of her - makes it worth it.

The Rig swerves left. Someone honks their horn.

Max jerks away with a gasp, straightens the wheel. His breath pants against the back of Furiosa’s head where she's dropped it against his chest. His heart drums against her ear.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” she says.

“What?”

“Watch the road. And drive straight this time.” Then she sets to work, rucking his shirt up out the way so she can undo the top button of his pants. The scent of him as she peels the leather open ignites a primal part of her brain, musk and masculinity, and she finds her mouth has gone dry with want even as she is flooded with a pulse of slick between her legs. One-handed, she eases his cock out of its confines, and oh, how she really loves this little bit of flesh. Took her a lot of self-discovery to accept this was what she wanted, the hard length of him hot in her palm, the bead of white come at its tip, the smell of him making her dizzier than the alcohol.

“Furiosa.”

“Hush,” she says, bends down and takes him into her mouth.

The Rig lurches faster suddenly. Furiosa pinches his leg, which proves effective as communication since he eases off the accelerator. She keeps her mouth still, lets them both get used to the sensation, the spongy bulb of his cock head resting on her tongue just behind her teeth.

Took her even longer to accept that this was something she wanted to try, but when she gives a little experimental suck and Max groans, the rush of power reminds her why she enjoys it. Here, this time, he is at her mercy, and she sets herself the challenge of reminding him of that in all the best ways.

Alternating suction with spirals of her tongue, Furiosa is amused to feel the Rig jerking and shuddering in a way that Max won’t let his hips. She breathes through her nose and sinks down a little more on his cock, hears him choke on air. Her hand she wraps around the stem of him, twists and pumps up to her mouth and down, smoothed by sweat and the spit sliding from between her lips.

“Ffff,” comes from above, her name or a curse or both. Furiosa hums in acknowledgement, gets a splatter of salty precome for her trouble that she swallows down. Tests herself, sinks a little lower on his cock so her hand is hardly moving at all. His cock bumps the back of her throat; her eyes water as her gag reflex kicks in. Max’s hips twitch before he brings them brutally under control. For that, she speeds up her rhythm, bobbing her head as she sucks. Her jaw is starting to ache and her abs are cramping from the awkward position, but she wants to make him come, wants to feel him fall to pieces and know it was her that did it.

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Furiosa pulls _up_ til her lips are sealed around the head of Max’s cock. She tongues the little slit there, licks up the salt and swirls around the spongy flesh. Max is shaking under her, burning hot through his clothes as Furiosa wrings gasps and choked noises out of him.

“Nngh - Furi - osa.”

She hums - permission and the final straw in one - as Max comes across her tongue, growling low in his chest. The bitter tang weirdly makes her mouth water more as she swallows and swallows and swallows, licks the last traces of it from his sensitive flesh until he twitches.

Pulling off with a pop, Furiosa sits upright, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She checks out the window, but all is well. The lead car is still in the lead while the Rig follows docilely, speed constant. Narrowing her eyes, Furiosa glances into the footwell - and sees the throttle has been locked. She turns accusingly to Max.

“That’s cheating.”

Max blinks at her, dazed, pupils blown. His hands are on the wheel, and she knows if Buzzards suddenly appeared on the horizon he would snap back to alert, but for now he looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over.

So much for reciprocation.

“Come on, swap,” she sighs. After a moment to gather himself, Max scoots into the middle. Furiosa eases up on her knees, straddles him - takes a moment to _grind_ deliciously down on his softening cock just to hear him keen - and then slots into the driver’s seat. Takes the throttle out of lock and revs the engine, shivers at the vibration thrumming her core.

Beside her, Max fumbles to button up his pants. Furiosa licks the taste of him from her lips and smiles.


	3. Unity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Furiosa in Max's car and a firefight to win...one perfect strike can finish off more than the Buzzards.

Furiosa had been impatient. She declared that it was worth the deadly all-night run through the Hot Zone to reach their destination faster. Max drove them through the nuked city-shell carefully. The question wasn’t if the Buzzards would find them, it was when. And when they did…

This drive was different. Max preferred it, frankly, though he'd never say so within the shadow of the Citadel. This wasn't like keeping the vast rumble of a Rig rolling. They were in a car that had become his: become _him_.  It was light and risky, barely armored in exchange for speed and agility. He felt every shift and shudder, read it like the ground beneath his own feet. Even Furiosa's light counterweight beside him changed the ride. She made it more stable. There was less road rattle and more engine power thrumming through him. Though that might just have been his pulse as he heard Furiosa flex, the click of her switching and unswitching her rifle's safety.

The Buzzards had changed their strategy. Two-thirds of the way through the terrible place, they'd laid an ambush. But so had Max. As he turned aside, seeming to run, Furiosa snaked up and shot two of their white-wrapped drivers with her rifle. The remaining Buzzards shrilled as one, and the chase was on.

Max had several thoughts as his car screamed in responding acceleration. _Never take the same route twice, listen for Furiosa’s orders, what a time for a hard-on._

This was their first firefight on their own, no Sisters to protect, no War Boys flinging themselves around historic. Just Max, a fast V8 engine, a back seat packed with guzzoline and weaponry, and that superb road warrior, his better self, Furiosa. A glimpse of her clean profile as she worked her rifle kept him ablaze.

“Brace yourself,” Max said, and made his car move. Jinxing left, sliding right, reversing to confuse, accelerating for a leap over a collapsed street. When two Buzzard bikes collided behind him and Furiosa laughed, he went even more steel-bar rigid.

“Turn hard. Elevate me,” Furiosa snapped. Max obeyed, taking a corner on two wheels so Furiosa’s side of the car reared up. She levered herself and the rifle out the open window with a harsh cry. A third shot rang. Behind them, Max heard another Buzzard car spin out and crash. The car rocked down, humping the ground for a moment before it ran stable again.

Max gritted, “Old bridge up ahead, to the right. Go under, let them come tight, then thunderstick it?”

“On it,” said Furiosa, right arm slinking into the back.

Soon, Furiosa stood on the seat, legs wide, her upper body below the sunroof until the last moment. Max’s whole being was tense, focused on keeping the ride fast and even, just the right speed to stay ahead of the Buzzards, while tempting them to follow. The engine’s roar was his pulse. Then Furiosa straightened, widening her stance, and the smell of her excitement hit the maddened back of Max’s brain.  He jerked his hips, once, accelerated a touch faster, beneath the bridge shadow.

The explosion rang. 

Furiosa howled. 

Max was hit with white blindness, shot by his own orgasm. He shook his head, snarling, and clamped his sweating hands tighter around the wheel. It took what brain he had left to drive and drive until a clean edge of dawn lit the sky. “Vehicle check,” he said, and coasted to a stop.

With a wet crotch and a dry mouth, he looked at Furiosa. 

She, too, was rocked back in her seat, eyes hazed, fervid. She rasped, “Hell of a drive. You want to come?”

“Already did,” Max muttered, feeling his face go hot. He was going to pay for this. “Mmm. You?” 

“Four kills and a thunderstick. What do you think?”

When she laughed a little, Max allowed himself to breathe, until Furiosa said, “Next time, I drive.” 


End file.
